The Taqwacores Read Online Free PDF

impromptu wrestling match, I went inside to see what the guys were up to though I should have figured since Fasiq had just bought rolling papers. They were up in Rude Dawud’s room with the door closed and the Specials’ “Rudy Ska” coming through the walls.
    I opened the door to a blast of smoke and Rude Dawud explaining to Fasiq that “whether you say ‘Allah’ or you say ‘Jah,’ brother, what does it matter?” Dawud—Rude, priceless Dawud in an almost-Hawaiian shirt but still with the sunglasses and pork-pie hat—saw me and smiled. “Hey, brother Yusef, how are you doing man?”
    “Al-hamdulilah,” I replied, shaking Dawud’s hand and sitting on his bed by Jehangir. He had the weed in his left and passed it to Fasiq. The room smelled rotten. Dawud’s walls were covered with pictures of Haile Selassie and two three-foot by five-foot flags—one for his homeland, the other a fashion statement. He saw me looking at them.
    “The Sudan,” he explained, pointing to the one with green triangle against red, white and black stripes. “Jamaica,” he added, pointing to the yellow X dividing green top-bottom from black left-right.

    “Mash’Allah,” I replied. Fasiq inhaled and then motioned to me. I raised my hand in silent but polite refusal and he passed the ganja to Jehangir.
    “In the Sudan, brother, that is where you see Islam, the way it really is, the way Islam is supposed to be,” he said, struggling to get his words together. “I mean, brother, the government there is very bad, they are very very bad—but the people, y’akhi, they are the good people. They are good Muslim people.”
    “Al-hamdulilah,” I replied.
    “And Jamaica, brother, you know, it is the same way—spiritu—al people, brother, good people. I was just saying to brother Fasiq here, brother, you know? Whether you say ‘Allah’ or if you say ‘Jah’ what does it matter? We are all brothers, right?”
    “Right.”
    “We all come from single pair, right?”
    “Subhana’Allah,” I said smiling.
    “Yes, brother! Subhana Jah! It is same, right?”
    “We’re all brothers,” said Fasiq. Jehangir leaned back taking it all in.
    “Brother,” said Rude Dawud, “we all come from the Earth, you know? We all come from the Earth, and we all go back to the Earth—”
    He said ‘Earth’ with a slight discarding of the h —almost ert , but not quite.
    As Fasiq stood up I noticed he had a Qur’an with him, one of the copies I had given him from Mustafa’s legacy. He gave his salaams to everyone and left the room, closing Dawud’s door behind him. I knew he’d climb out the bathroom window to the roof. With Fasiq gone, it suddenly seemed unnatural for me to sit in a room clouded with marijuana smoke, so I gave my salaams and followed him.
    Standing by the bathroom sink, I looked out the window at that
mohawked Malaysian hashishiyyun in black zip-up Operation Ivy hoodie, his back to me bearing the faceless image of Ska Man. I looked at the character who was really only an outline, a ragged hat-wearing silhouette against the backdrop of a full moon as he lunged forward in frozen leap from some urban rooftop, perhaps, as he pounced down on muggers and evil-doers. Then I felt self-conscious about studying a cartoon on the back of my friend’s sweatshirt, especially since Fasiq was unaware of my presence. I left him and his Qur‘an, wondering if maybe I should have just stayed there in case he took a chemically-impaired fall off the roof. Staghfir’Allah.
    I walked back to Dawud’s room, opened the door and just kind of stood there awkwardly watching them smoke and laugh.
    “Al-hamdulilah,” said Jehangir, leaning back, his eyes red. “Al-hamdulilahi rabbil’Alameen, yeah yeah, ar-Rahmanir Raheem, maliki yawmi-deen! Yusef, I’m just an innocent poor heart, that’s all. And maybe I’m just an innocent poor heart because my Abu kicked off when I was seven and left me surrounded by women who only wanted me to be happy